


the wild-eyed boy from cokeworth

by flibbertygigget



Category: David Bowie (Musician), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Music, Period-Typical Homophobia, References to David Bowie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 22:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13063056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flibbertygigget/pseuds/flibbertygigget
Summary: In 1969, Severus Snape meets the two greatest loves of his life.The first is Lily. The second is a voice that drifts out of the shabby record store that's crammed between the butcher's and the dirty street.





	the wild-eyed boy from cokeworth

_1969_

_It's really me_  
_Really you_  
 _And really me_  
 _It's so hard for us to really be_  
 _\- David Bowie, “The Wild-Eyed Boy from Freecloud”_

In 1969, Severus Snape meets the two greatest loves of his life.

The first is Lily. She’s beautiful, bright, smiling. She’s everything, he thinks, that he isn’t – in short, she’s perfection. Just meeting her is enough to make the summer the happiest of his life. That’s why he’s so surprised when he finds his second love in the shabby shop crammed between the butcher’s and the dirty street.

He first hears his voice coming out of the Muggle record shop, and he’ll admit that at first he doesn’t pay enough attention. But at the key change there’s something in the lyrics, in the turn of phrase that demands Severus’s attention. He lingers at the door, trying to parse out what the voice was saying from the bits and pieces that he can hear through the wood. He’s so absorbed in the puzzle that he jumps when the door opens with a discordant jingling of bells.

“You goin’ come in, boy?” says the shopkeeper gruffly. Severus stares at him.

“I ay got money,” he says. The shopkeeper waves him in, and Severus, against his better judgement, allows himself to be waved.

“Ay no matter, boy. I don’ ‘ave any ‘ere, ayways.” Severus looks around. Despite living in Cokeworth all his life, he’s never really paid attention to the Muggles that surround him. He always took it as a matter of course that he’d go to Hogwarts and leave the Muggle world behind, one day, and he had no interest in anything that didn’t have to do with magic. But this…

“Who was tha’, tha’ were singin’?” he asks.

“Tha’ were Bowie, boy,” the shopkeeper says. “You remember tha’ song tha’ played whiles ye were watchin’ the moon landin’?” Severus nods. “Tha’ were him, too. Tha’s ‘is album there.”

“What’s he talkin’ ‘bout?” Severus says.

“Damned if I know. They’s queer lads, ‘im and the rest of ‘em. Writin’ like they’re bleedin’ poets, they are.”

“I like it.”

“Now I ay say I ay. I s’pose I like it well enough.” The shopkeeper walks over to the record player, turning it off. Severus tries not to look too disappointed. The shopkeeper places it carefully in its sleeve, and then, to Severus’s surprise, holds it out towards him. Severus blinks at it, uncomprehending. “Take it, lad.”

“I ay got money,” Severus says.

“An’ I’m tellin’ ye that ye ay need it. Ye seem to like it more than me.” Severus reaches out slowly, and then snatches the record away as quickly as he can.

“Thanks, sir,” he says, clutching his bounty close to his chest. The shopkeeper smiles indulgently.

“It ay naught, lad,” he says. “Jus’ be sure ye take care of it, ye hear?” Severus nods, a smile dancing over his lips.

_1971_

_She's so swishy in her satin and tat_   
_In her frock coat and bipperty-bopperty hat_   
_Oh God, I could do better than that_   
_\- David Bowie, “Queen Bitch”_

“I ay seen you in months, lad,” the shopkeeper says when Severus enters the record shop.

“Sorry,” Severus says. “Me mum sent me to a boarding school. I ay been able to come back.” The old man rolls his eyes.

“Ye don’t need no excuses with me, lad,” he says. “Though I would ‘ave liked to know before ye went.”

“I’m going back on the 9th,” Severus says. “And then for Easter the last week o’ March. I ay abandoning you or nothin’.” He eyes the older man. “Do you ‘ave-“

“O’ course I do, boy,” the shopkeeper says. He hands Severus the new record. Severus handles it like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen, which it very nearly is. “That’ll be five pound.” Severus nods and hands him a note.

“He still looks like a girl,” Severus says, letting himself grin a little. His first semester at Hogwarts hadn’t been the most fun he’d ever had. Between being sorted into Slytherin (which he didn’t resent, he _didn’t_ ) and having to wear his mum’s old robes, he was starting to worry that he’d never stop feeling like an outcast. One of the things that kept him going, that he kept coming back to again and again, was the fact that Bowie wouldn’t think he was a freak. Bowie had been in a dress on the cover of _The Man Who Sold the World_ , and now he’s like that again, all long hair and perfect makeup. Maybe Severus could find a way to get some makeup, so that it would look like he was like Bowie instead of just poor.

“Aye, an’ tha’ got ‘im in trouble in America,” the shopkeeper says. “I reckon ‘e won’ be so bold on ‘is next album. Everyone wants t’ be a success over there.”

“He won’t,” Severus says with a blind faith he’s never given to anyone before. “Bowie doesn’t care what the press says, and he ay about to start.”

 

_1973_

_Someone, someone has drained the color from my wings_   
_Broken my fairy circle ring_   
_And shamed the king in all his pride_   
_Changed the winds and wronged the tides_   
_\- Queen, “My Fairy King”_

“Mum, can I ‘ave some money?” Severus says. His mum looks at him tiredly, as though she can’t quite believe that he’s asking her for something like this, but Severus sticks to his guns.

“Wha’ do ye wan’ money fo’?” she says, turning back to the soup that is cooking on their stove.

“I need a train ticket. To Birmingham.”

“Why do ye need to go to Brummie?” she asks.

“There’s a concert there, an’ I want to see it. I have enough for the ticket, but not for the train.”

“You’re thirteen, Sevvie,” his mum says. “I don’ like ye goin’ to Brummie by ye-self.”

“I ay goin’ be by myself. Lily’s goin’ to meet me there.”

“Ye are both thirteen, Sevvie.” His mum sighs. “Ask yer da.”

“But Mum-“

“Yer da’s in charge o’ the money. Ye can ask him.”

“What, and get the shite clobbered out o’ me again?” Severus doesn’t wait for her answer, running out the door and slamming it behind him. It isn’t until he’s already half-way there that he realizes that he’s heading for the record shop.

“Me mum’s not letting me go,” he says as the bells clang, announcing his entrance.

“Good. Yer too young for that,” the shopkeeper says.

“But I want to see him,” Severus whines.

“Bowie will still be ‘ere when yer a wee bit older, lad.”

“He could die. Like Hendrix or – or Joplin.”

“So long as ‘e keeps ‘is ‘ead on straight, ‘e won’t,” the shopkeeper says. “Now, did ye like that album by Queen I showed ye?”

“Of course,” Severus said.

“I ‘ere they’re touring with Mott the Hoople in America soon. I reckon their next album will be a right success.”

“Do you think me mum would let me see _them_?” Severus says with a glower. “They ay crossdressing or nothin’ like that, not like Bowie.”

“Maybe when yer older,” the shopkeeper says.

“Me da reckons Bowie’s a bugger.”

“Yer da ay right. Bowie may say ‘e’s a bugger, but ‘e’s got a wife and baby.” Severus can’t decide whether the feeling in his stomach is relief or disappointment.

“Maybe I’ll just hitchhike to the concert,” he says. “Me ma can’t tell me what to do.”

“Ye ay hitchhiking, boy, not on me life,” the shopkeeper says. “There will be plenty o’ times to see ‘im in concert. I don’ wan’ ye worryin’ yer mum.”

If Severus had known that he would never get a chance to see Bowie again, he would have hitchhiked and hanged all their worries. But he couldn’t know, so he didn’t do it.

_1974_

_It's clean the chimneys kids, and it's 1974_   
_Shake a fist, make Oliver Twist_   
_There's no way you ain't poor_   
_\- Mott the Hoople, “Pearl ‘n’ Roy (England)”_

When Severus Snape is 14, his da loses his job at the mill. Tobias Snape swears up and down that it was the fault of the recession, of the Three Day Week, of the damn Labour ponces, but Severus knows better. His da has no one to blame but himself. What mill wants a worker who comes in smelling of liquor four days out of five?

Not even a new Bowie album can distract Severus from his burning, directionless rage. He can’t give his da what he deserves. He can’t do _anything_ , not with his da in a mood and his mum being more determined than ever to let the bastard get away with everything. For once, Bowie doesn’t understand him, doesn’t have anything to say that is in any way close to what he needs.

Still, Severus goes to the record shop on his Easter hols, hoping to find something that douses the rage that burns him like firewhiskey. The shopkeeper takes one look at him and shoves an album into his arms. Severus looks down at the lady with faces in her hair uncomprehendingly.

“Their singer’s from Shropshire,” the shopkeeper says, as though that explains anything. “An’ don’ even _think_ about payin’ me, boy.”

Later, when Severus is sure he’s alone, he turns his stereo up as high as it can go and tries to drown out the memory of his da throwing an empty bottle at his head with “The Golden Age of Rock and Roll.”

_1976_

_I brought my baby home, she, she sat around forlorn_   
_She saw my T V C one five, baby's gone, she_   
_She crawled right in, oh my_   
_She crawled right in my_   
_So hologramic, oh my T V C one five_   
_\- David Bowie, “TVC 15”_

Severus isn’t used to being alone.

He hates it, hates that, at some point, he had become so used to having a friend, so dependent on Lily. He feels lost. He feels destroyed, dismembered – or maybe it’s the opposite. He’s about to implode from the pressure; he’s about the explode from the wanting. And the worst of it is that he can’t even pretend that he doesn’t deserve it.

It’s fitting, really, that Bowie is imploding right along with him.

_1977_

_I will sit right down, waiting for the gift of sound and vision_   
_And I will sing, waiting for the gift of sound and vision_   
_Drifting into my solitude, over my head_   
_\- David Bowie, “Sound and Vision”_

Years later, Severus will wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t missed _Low_ and _Heroes_ when they came out. Would he have fallen so far if he had listened to them? Would he have listened to “you’re such a wonderful person, but you’ve got problems,” or would he have ignored it like so many other warnings? Would he have believed in being a hero, just for one day?

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. Severus loses Lily, loses himself, and, finally, he loses Bowie as well. It isn’t until three years later that he emerges, gasping and screaming, clawing his way to his own Berlin.

 

_1980_

_Silhouettes and shadows_   
_Watch the revolution_   
_No more three steps to heaven_   
_It's no game_   
_\- David Bowie, “It’s No Game (Part 1)”_

When Bowie comes out with a new album just as Severus is starting his first year of teaching at Hogwarts, he takes it as a sign. When the new album manages to click with him in a way that hasn’t happened since _Station to Station_ , it’s clear that it’s more than just a sign. It’s fate or God or maybe just Bowie, but whatever it is, it’s telling him that he’s made the right decision. Now if only he could live to enjoy Bowie’s next album.

He doesn’t expect to survive the war. It isn’t necessary. He swoops around the dungeon like a bat and tries to keep his classes from killing themselves. He pulls his memories from his skull and into little bottles for Dumbledore, because that’s what he’s good for now, the sound and vision of the Death Eater meetings he attends. He looks the Dark Lord in eye and lies to his face, Occluding wildly in broken Japanese that he can’t understand but treasures anyways.

If he put a bullet in his brain, it wouldn’t make all the papers, but that’s alright. It’s a comfort to know that he has that option if the Dark Lord gets too close.

One night, he comes closer to being found out than he’d like to admit. Still shaking from the Cruciatus, he forces himself not to fall down the Headmaster’s spiral staircase as it carries him up. He is about to let himself in when he hears voices coming from inside. There’s the Headmaster’s, of course, but there’s also another. He sneaks closer to the door, bringing up his screen like he’s spying on the Dark Lord, his heart pounding wildly.

“I want to talk to you about Severus, of course!” It’s Professor McGonagall’s voice. Severus’s jaw tightens. He knows that she doesn’t trust him, but if she’s bringing it up to the Headmaster she must hate him more than he thought. It doesn’t matter, not really, but it stings.

“Minerva, Severus has truly turned to our side. Trust me, I have every proof of it.”

“This isn’t a matter of _trust_ , Albus,” Professor McGonagall says, almost snaps. “And that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Than what is it?”

“You may think that we’re all blind to what is happening, but I’m no fool, Albus,” she says. “He is spying on You-Know-Who, is he not?” There’s a short pause, the Headmaster presumably nodding. “Do you have any idea what that – that _evil_ man does to him?” Severus frowns, feeling as though he missed part of the conversation.

“I have guessed,” the Headmaster says. “Severus has assured me, though, that-“

“That what? He can handle the whims of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? He’s just a boy, Albus.” Severus feels as though his heart has stopped. He never expected anything like this, not from those that he had betrayed before.

“He is hardly a child, Minerva. Remember, he took Voldemort’s mark. He has done horrible things.” Severus can hear the disgust in the Headmaster’s tone. It doesn’t disturb him; in fact, it’s expected, almost welcome.

“He’s still young, Albus. He’s – I had him in my classes, you know. I don’t suppose you paid him much attention when he was in school, but I did, or at least I tried. He was always so bright, so intelligent. I thought that, if he could find a way to move past all the childish teasing – But I was wrong about that, too, wasn’t I? It was always a little more than that, I was just too blind to see it. And somewhere along the line, something was broken, and it makes me sad. The world could have been kinder to him, but it wasn’t, and now all that potential, all that innocence-“

“Severus has no one to blame for his faults but himself,” the Headmaster says, voice grave and unyielding. “If he has truly repented, then his way forward is clear. If he has not, he will face the consequences sooner or later. He is a spy now, Minerva, not your student and certainly not an innocent.”

“You’re not the only one who has fought in this war, Albus.” Professor McGonagall sounds, if anything, more stubborn than the Headmaster. “I wonder if you forget, sometimes, that you at the head of an army of people, not simply a game of chess.” Severus hears her get up from her seat. “I can see myself out, Albus.” Severus quickly knocks on the door before Professor McGonagall can open it and realize that he wasn’t only spying on the Dark Lord. After a moment she opens the door.

“Professor McGonagall,” he says smoothly, hoping that the tremors he could feel bone-deep weren’t too obvious.

“Severus,” she says, “are you-“

“I’m fine,” he says quickly. She narrows her eyes at him. “Headmaster, I have the memories of the last meeting.”

“Excellent,” the Headmaster says. Severus almost drops the memory, his hand is shaking so badly from the torture, but he manages to pass it over to the Headmaster. Professor McGonagall’s eyes widen.

“Mr. Snape,” she says sharply, “did you go to Poppy?”

“I took the correct potions,” Severus says. “The Dark Lord wasn’t pleased that his last raids were intercepted by the Order, nor that I have proven to be a less valuable spy than he anticipated. I, of course, had my excuses, but-“

“But You-Know-Who didn’t accept them.” Professor McGonagall looks almost as pale as Severus. “Still, your potions should have healed you by now.” Severus shifts uncomfortably.

“I have my suspicions about… well, that. The long-term effects of the Cruciatus haven’t really been studied, but it could be that the potions become less effective over time. Or maybe I’m just getting old.”

“Severus-“ Severus dodges her concerned hand, no matter how much the support would help him stay upright. He isn’t that weak.

“I have potions to brew, Headmaster. If I may go?”

“Of course, of course.” The Headmaster isn’t looking at him but at his memories, deep in thought. Professor McGonagall looks as though she wants to protest, but Severus leaves too quickly for her to do so.

He has so much work to do.

 

_1981_

_It's the terror of knowing_   
_What this world is about_   
_Watching some good friends_   
_Screaming 'Let me out'_   
_\- Queen ft. David Bowie, “Under Pressure”_

On October 26th, 1981, Queen and Bowie put out a new single. Severus is so excited that he Floos to the Leaky Cauldron, not even caring that getting caught buying a Muggle record would be, by far, the stupidest way to be found out by the Dark Lord. He plays it over and over in his small flat in Muggle London, grinning stupidly.

Five days later, his world falls apart.

He should have known. No matter what the Headmaster or Minerva try to tell him, he should have known. Why else was he a spy? He should have known that Black was a Death Eater, that Black sold out Lily and Potter, that they were going to die.

The pressure, which by all rights should be gone with the Dark Lord, implodes him completely.

He weeps. He rages. He blames the Headmaster, though he shouldn’t, though he knows that the fault lies with him. Well, with him and with Black. Had the man not already been packed off to Azkaban, he would have done as Pettigrew had and hunted him down. The difference, of course, would have been that Severus wouldn’t have let Black come away with his life.

“I wish I were dead,” he tells the Headmaster that night, that horrible night.

“And of what use would that be to anyone?” Severus lets out a snort that sounds more like a sob.

“I’m not going to commit suicide, Headmaster,” he says. “I can still feel the Mark. I know the Dark Lord isn’t dead.” He pauses. “I lived for 21 years. How long will I have to die for? 20? 30? 50 more?”

“However long it takes, Severus.”

“Or for however long I am of use to you,” Severus agrees, calling for his heart to harden.

 

_1982_

_Dancer dancer_   
_I can't live with it I'm gonna die without it_   
_Dancer dancer_   
_Ain't no doubt about it_   
_\- Queen, “Dancer”_

Severus credits Queen with knocking him out of his depression, though not in any good or meaningful way. _Hot Space_ , despite the promise of “Under Pressure,” is a hot mess, and now Severus hates Queen more than he’s ever hated anyone except the Dark Lord himself.

 

_1983_

_Let's dance_   
_Put on your red shoes and dance the blues_   
_Let's dance_   
_To the song they're playin' on the radio_   
_\- David Bowie, “Let’s Dance”_

Severus credits Bowie with knocking him right back in again. Of course in the moment when he needed something good the man would come out with typical Muggle pop shite.

 

_1984_

_Don't look down, no_   
_Don't know who else came to kneel_   
_On this empty battlefield_   
_But when I hear that crazy sound, I don't look down_   
_\- David Bowie, “Don’t Look Down”_

Somehow, _Tonight_ is an even worse album than _Let’s Dance._ Severus decides to give Bowie one more chance, one more album before he gives up on the man who had helped him more than anyone else in his miserable life.

 

_1987_

_Time will crawl 'til our mouths run dry_   
_Time will crawl 'til our feet grow small_   
_Time will crawl 'til our tails fall off_   
_Time will crawl 'til the 21st century lose_   
_\- David Bowie, “Time Will Crawl”_

For fuck’s sake. And here Severus thought the damn Muggle couldn’t possibly let him down farther.

 

_1991_

_The show must go on._   
_The show must go on._   
_Inside my heart is breaking._   
_My make-up may be flaking._   
_But my smile still stays on._   
_\- Queen, “The Show Must Go On”_

When _Innuendo_ comes out, Severus feels hopeful for the first time in ages. Queen’s albums had been becoming increasingly better since 1982, but this is the first one he’s loved like it’s from the 70s. Perhaps this year won’t be a total wash, he thinks.

Potter is as aggravating as his father and the Dark Mark flames up seemingly at random, but he can’t let it bother him. Not visibly, at least. He encases his heart in ice and uses the violins of “The Show Must Go On” to Occlude even from the Headmaster. There’s something wrong with Quirrell, there’s a fucking Philosopher’s Stone in a fucking school for children, but he can’t allow his mask to crack. He has to be the same hateful Potions professor he has always been, even though he would like nothing more than to run away to Albania. And, for a moment, it seems like he will succeed, at least at his duties to the school and to Dumbledore.

Then November 24th happens.

The day dawns clear and surprisingly mild for so late in the year. He feels almost light-hearted, and he indulges himself in a walk before reading first the _Daily Prophet_ , then the Muggle newspaper that he uses to keep track of happenings beyond the Wizarding World. But where he expects to see IRA bombings or dire predictions of economic ruin, he instead sees something that makes him lose control entirely.

Freddie Mercury is dead.

It can’t be possible. The man’s only a year older than Bowie, and he’s never had a chance to see him in concert. He had thought that what the shopkeeper had told him so long ago had been true: they’d still be here when he’s a wee bit older, they wouldn’t die, not if they kept their heads on straight. Severus broke down. He’d never see Queen as they were meant to be, Mercury would never again stun him with an impossible high note, he would never be able to send the letter that he kept putting off.

_Dear Freddie Mercury, you helped me make it through a war._

_Dear Ian Hunter, you made me realize that someone understood Spinner’s End._

_Dear David Bowie, you were my only friend for such a long time._

_Dear rock stars, you saved my life a thousand times over._

No. That could never happen now, not with Freddie Mercury at least. It was the end of an era.

By the time that Severus has managed to piece back together a semblance of his mask, he’s missed breakfast. Thank God, it’s a Sunday at least, and he has a little longer before he has to teach. Because he does have to teach. He has to continue, to teach Potions, to thwart the Dark Lord, to find out what the hell’s up with Quirrell.

Inside his heart may be breaking, but the show must go on. 

_1995_

_I should live my life on bended knee_   
_If I can't control my destiny_   
_You've gotta have a scheme_   
_You've gotta have a plan_   
_In the world of today, for tomorrow's man_   
_\- David Bowie, “No Control”_

It’s an absurd risk, to buy Bowie’s new album. It’s an even more absurd risk to move all his Muggle things to Spinner’s End. The Dark Lord knows where his house there is, the house he grew up in, the house he hates. Maybe that’s what this is: an exorcism. Get rid of the Darkness, let the light in.

Not that Bowie’s new album is light. No, it’s dark, and twisted, and challenging to understand, but that’s only right for times such as these. Severus can handle the Dark, he has handled it all his life. What he can’t handle is people lying to him, which is unfortunately a necessity now.

Albus has a plan. He tries to remind himself of that.

When the Dark Lord shows up at Spinner’s End, Severus invites him in, making every show of courtesy. In the privacy of his mind, hidden behind his Occlusion, he grins at how the Dark Lord doesn’t hear the faint sound of the still-playing record, the B-side of _The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars._

He is afraid, but he is not alone. Bowie is upstairs, assuring him of that.

 

_1997_

_And I'm gone_   
_Like I'm dancing on angels_   
_And I'm gone through a crack in the past_   
_Like a dead man walking_   
_Like a dead man walking_   
_\- David Bowie, “Dead Man Walking”_

Severus knows that this is the last Bowie album he will ever be able to buy.

Soon, very soon, Albus will die. No, Severus will kill him, and then he will have to go even deeper undercover, immerse himself completely in the Dark Lord’s ranks. Even if, by some miracle, he lasts the two years it usually takes Bowie to make an album, he won’t be able to sneak away to buy it. After this short Easter holiday, he will most likely never have a chance to listen to any of Bowie’s albums ever again.

He listens to every album he has. Yes, even _Never Let Me Down_ , even _Tin Machine_. He listens to Marc Bolan and Mott the Hoople, to Lou Reed and Mick Jagger. He listens to _Scary Monsters_ over and over, trying to recapture 1980, trying to borrow the strength he needs to do this last, horrible task for the Headmaster.

He finally writes his letter to Bowie. It’s half fan mail, half Last Will and Testament. It’s the closest thing to absolution he’ll ever get, if Bowie actually responds. The Muggle is busy, after all.

When he returns, he is ready, finally ready, to do what he has to do. It’s not the safest thing to do, but he’s gotten used to the stressing pain, to sucking down potions like candy. He knows better than to shy away from his tasks, from either of his masters. He’s gasping for air, gasping for a resurrection of when he knew what the hell he was doing, but he’ll have to do without air for now.

Record players don’t work inside Hogwarts, after all.

Sometimes fear gets through his Occlusion, but that’s only natural, after all. Sometimes he hates Albus almost as much as he hates the Dark Lord, if only for lying to him about the purpose of Potter. But he doesn’t need to consider the knowledge, he’s never needed to consider the knowledge. All he needs is his own certainty.

He casts the Killing Curse without hesitation. He follows orders like a little metal-faced boy. And, in the end, he does his duty just in time to die.

 

_2016_

_I know something’s very wrong_   
_The pulse returns the prodigal sons_   
_With blackout hearts, with flowered muse_   
_With skull designs upon my shoes_

_I can't give everything_   
_I can't give everything_   
_Away_   
_I can't give everything_   
_Away_

_Seeing more and feeling less_   
_Saying no but meaning yes_   
_This is all I ever meant_   
_That's the message that I sent_

_I can't give everything_   
_I can't give everything_   
_Away_   
_I can't give everything_   
_Away_   
_\- David Bowie, “I Can’t Give Everything Away”_

Harry Potter smiles when Draco Malfoy appears on the dirty road with a crack. If anyone had told him 18 years earlier that he would ever be meeting with Malfoy in a small, poor Muggle town in the Midlands, he would have told them they were nuts. Absolutely bonkers. But 18 years was a long time, and here Malfoy was, looking thoughtfully at the rowhouse in front of him.

“So this is where Professor Snape grew up,” Harry says. Malfoy hums. “Why go through it now? And why me?”

“The wards should have disintegrated completely by now,” Malfoy says. “And as for you, it’s only fair. You were the one to see him die, after all.” Harry nods.

“Shall we?” he says. Malfoy shrugs. Harry reaches for the doorknob, expecting it to only jiggle, but to his surprise it opens smoothly for him. He looks into the dark hallway with some trepidation. “I hope no one burgled him.”

“He must have keyed it to your magic signature before he died,” Malfoy says, sounding almost awed. “I didn’t realize he would – I mean, he wouldn’t do it for anyone, not even the Dar – Voldemort. Not even me or Father.” Harry steps through the doorway, and then he looks down to find a small pile of mail. He glances over at Malfoy before picking it up for them to go through later.

Down the hallway is a kitchen. It’s almost completely Muggle except for the large iron cauldron in the middle of the room, where a table would more naturally be. Beyond that is a small living room, with a few motheaten armchairs and a lumpy looking couch. The only bookcase is filled with texts on Potions and the Dark Arts. Harry leads the way up a rickety staircase. They pass a small bathroom, towels and toothbrush and soap still out as though waiting for their owner to come home. Harry notes with a sort of dull amusement that there is, indeed, shampoo. At the end of another narrow hallway are two rooms.

“You take this one, I’ll take that one?” Malfoy says. Harry nods and pushes open the closest door.

What had once been a bedroom had been turned into a Potions lab. Several cauldrons of different materials and sizes are stacked neatly in the corner, along with a large supply of firewood. Harry opens a large wardrobe to find a makeshift ingredient cupboard. Most of the ingredients are hopelessly out of date, of course, but he makes note of the ones that might be salvaged. He’s about to look at the cauldrons closer when he hears Malfoy calling for him.

“Harry! Harry, get in here!” Harry races out of the lab and into the other room, wand out and ready for whatever horror Malfoy found. What he sees leaves him gobsmacked, and from Malfoy’s expression the Slytherin isn’t far behind him.

“What the hell?” Harry says. Malfoy lets out a choked laugh.

“Holy shit, he had all this – all this Muggle stuff. It was right under Voldemort’s nose.”

“Voldemort had a nose?” Harry says. Malfoy’s laugh this time is more genuine.

“I can’t believe it. I honestly can’t believe it. I mean, I know he was a spy, but… I always thought it was because he disagreed with Voldemort’s methods. I never thought he was so…” Harry wanders over to the bookshelf. Dickens, Shakespeare, and Dante are there, sure, but also Muggle authors that were less than classic. Stephen King. Tom Clancy. Even, hilariously, John le Carré.

“How the hell did he hide all this from Voldemort?” Harry says, awestruck.

“I have no fucking clue,” Malfoy says. “Probably the same way he hid being a spy. Look, he’s even got a telly. And a VHS player. Jesus!” He opens the cabinet under the telly. “Looks like Uncle Severus liked Disney movies. Wait, what the hell are Muppets?”

“They were pretty famous puppets made by Jim Henson,” Harry says distractedly. “Oi, he’s got records as well.” The records had been, as with everything in the house, meticulously organized, sorted alphabetically by artist. Harry can see that some had been listened to more than others, with some by Bowie being so worn he can’t even read the edge of the sleeve. “Weird, I would’ve thought that he would be into jazz or something.”

“I have no idea what we’re going to do with all this,” Malfoy mutters. “I mean, I was planning on donating the lot to Hogwarts, but they don’t need this Muggle stuff. Half of it won’t even work there!” Harry turns over the mail in his hands, thinking as he sorts through them. The long-overdue electricity and water bills could be thrown out, since he doubted the town of Cokeworth even remembered the bills anymore. Suddenly one of the letters caught his eye.

“Hey, Malfoy,” he says. “Look at this.” The letter is hand-addressed and, oddly, only has a no doubt long-lapsed P.O. box for a return address. “Do you think we should open it?”

“Well, it can hardly hurt now,” Malfoy says, a little sarcastically. Harry nods and opens the letter, only to almost drop it when he sees the signature at the bottom. It’s one he’s become more familiar with than he even thought he would, since it’s been on magazine covers and newspaper pages since January.

“Malfoy,” he says carefully, “I think it’s from David Bowie?”

“The – er, wait a moment – Wasn’t he the Muggle that died earlier this year? The singer who pretended to be an alien?”

“That’s the one,” Harry says. “I – Jesus, I never expected to find a response to a bloody fan letter when going through Professor Snape’s things.”

“Well, now I’m just curious,” Malfoy says. “Read it.” Harry clears his throat and begins to read:

_May 25 th, 1997_

_Dear Severus,_

_I was quite pleased and flattered to get your letter, though you managed to make me feel pretty old. Imagine, a chemistry Professor who’s been listening to me since he was 9! Sometimes I feel as though I’ll blink and be 19 again, and have to muddle through the mess all over again. Or maybe I’ll blink and become 80, and find that my entire middle age has just passed me by. It’s a little baffling sometimes, time, and so I try not to think of it._

_So your favorite album is Scary Monsters…? My personal favorite of my own is probably Outside, or maybe the new, unnamed one I’m working on right now. Scary Monsters… was a terrifically fun album to make, although I have a feeling that you won’t quite like that assessment. I can’t blame you, of course, if Let’s Dance came at a time where a fun little pop album wasn’t welcome. There are some pictures that Mick insisted on printing that I don’t like looking at, even if they are of my birthday. Sometimes the past is better left in the past, wouldn’t you agree?_

_I am terribly sorry to hear that you have a year to a year and a half to live. I couldn’t imagine getting that kind of prognosis. I always have some kind of project in the works, and to leave things undone and business unfinished would be the worst kind of intolerable. As for your 'sins' as you put it, I can't imagine that they're as unforgivable as you imagine. Don't let your fear get in the way of apologizing to those you've hurt, and I'm sure that you will be forgiven. I hope that, however much time you have left, you are able to enjoy it with your friends and family._

_Feel free to write me again. I enjoyed your letter, and I feel that we could become great friends if we weren’t an ocean away from each other!_

_All the best,_

_David Bowie_


End file.
